


Can Lay My Body Down, Can't Find My Sweet Release

by Nellie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Bodily Fluids, Frottage, M/M, Miscommunication, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/pseuds/Nellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a spermpire and must suck cock to survive. Eames pines. Angst ensues.  I promise this is less cracky than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can Lay My Body Down, Can't Find My Sweet Release

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a response to this kink meme prompt [HERE. ](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17669.html?thread=37780485#t37780485)

Eames has kept his mouth shut for a whole year. Even though he’s known since the job in Santiago, when Arthur dragged himself back to the team’s rented suite vomiting bile with the bloody bite marks all over his inner thighs. Even though it kills him to see Arthur let strange men into his hotel room on every job.

He’s not going to sit back and keep his mouth shut anymore.

Arthur’s at the front of the conference room now, explaining the training methods they’re going to apply for the militarisation of the firm’s senior partners. He’s pale, gaunt in the cheeks. There are dark bruises just beneath his eyes, and it’s all Eames can do not to snap his pencil in half at the sight.

He shouldn’t linger once the meeting is over, but he finds himself waiting around anyway, fussing with his folio while the rest of the team Arthur hired files out.

“You can go, Eames.”

Eames looks up from the diagrams in the folio and meets Arthur’s eyes. They’re too bright, subtle white flecks marking the brown. “I… I’ve got a question.”

Arthur leans his hip against the table. “And you couldn’t have asked it when I said ‘any questions’?”

“You probably would have shot me in the face if I had, so no.” He takes a deep breath, and hopes Arthur won’t shoot him in the face anyway. “How long has it been since you fed?”

The silence is palpable, before Arthur shifts his weight. “I skipped lunch, but I’m going to have a decent dinner to make up for it. Are you going to tell me to remember my breakfast and brush my teeth, too?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Eames says.

Arthur frowns, flawlessly nonchalant. “What do you mean then?”

“I know what happened in Santiago.”

Arthur’s fingers twitch against the polished table top. “Nothing happened in Santiago. I was attacked. I got better.”

There’s probably a more tactful way to go about this, but Eames just snorts. “If by ‘better’ you mean ‘now needs to ingest semen in order to maintain homeostasis’, sure, I believe you.”

Arthur’s eyes go wide.

“My sister,” Eames explains. “She was turned when she was nineteen. So I’m not exactly a stranger to the condition.”

“Oh.” Arthur says.

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell me anyway.”

He’s not expecting Arthur to laugh. He hasn’t heard Arthur laugh in months.

“Tell you what?” Arthur says, mouth twisted up at the corners in a façade of a smile. “That I have to suck cock to survive? That if I ever proposition you, it’s probably just because I need to swallow come so badly that I’m burning up inside?”

The words shouldn’t be erotic. Eames’s cock doesn’t care. He shifts as subtly as he can. “You should proposition me, Arthur. It’d be better than sitting here watching you waste away job after job until you get so bloody weak you’ve got no choice but to say fuck it to your pride and chat up some businessman looking for kicks in the hotel bar.”

Arthur stares at him. “I didn’t realise you paid so much attention to my personal life.”

Eames shrugs and looks away, ignoring the meaning hiding under that particular detail. “It’s not as good as getting it hot from the source, so to speak, but if you get so desperate you’re looking like… .” he glances back at Arthur, the thin skin and violet veins stretched too tight over all the fine musculature. “Like _this_ , I can always just. You know. Supply you something to tide you over until your next foray into the hotel bar.”

“Eames, are you…” Arthur leans more heavily against the table, tapping at the surface with his fingers. “Are you saying you’d jerk off into a cup for me?”

“I’m just putting it out there.” It’d kill him. He’d coax those orgasms out to the thought of Arthur’s hands, Arthur’s tongue; wring himself dry to the point of pain, all the time knowing that it’d be someone else’s cock that sharp mouth would close around later. But he’d still do it.

Arthur leans close to flip Eames’s folio closed, close enough for Eames to smell the sickly sweetness of his breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There’s no doubt he’s being dismissed. Eames picks up the folio as he stands. “The offer’s always there.”

“I don’t need your pity, Eames.”

Eames grips the folio harder and doesn’t reply as he walks out.

As if it’s ever been about _pity_.

*

Even though he’s expecting it, the sight of Arthur bright-eyed and well-fed talking animatedly at the breakfast table in the morning makes Eames twitch. He focuses on the buffet, the pale scrambled eggs and tiny seasoned sausages, but he can still hear Arthur’s voice. Usually it’s fine, he can handle it, but it stings so much more knowing he offered and was shot down in favour of some stranger.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is the call from Cobb a few days later.

“Arthur told me you know,” he says, blunt, when Eames answers the phone.

Eames scrubs his free hand across his face and sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s not sure what’s more mortifying; the fact that Arthur obviously talks to Cobb about his condition, or the fact that _he’s_ about to talk to Cobb about it. “I’ve always known.”

“Look, I just don’t want you getting any ideas, alright?”

Too late. There are already plenty of them in Eames’s head, most of which involve Arthur naked. Arthur splayed out on obnoxious hotel bedspreads, Arthur between his legs moaning around his cock, Arthur’s spine arching just so as Eames sinks deep into the slick heat of him.

He shakes his head, as if that’ll actually help dislodge the imagery there. He can’t talk to Cobb while he’s thinking about how Arthur’s ass would feel clenching around his fingers. He really can’t. It’s like thinking about how you’re going to fuck your date in the backseat of your car while her father is telling you to treat her right and have her home by midnight. “Arthur wouldn’t touch me to save his life, literally. He’s made that abundantly clear. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the line. “If you say so. But if I ever find out you’ve taken advantage of his condition to get your rocks off, I’ll—“

“Jesus Christ Dom, stop.” There’s something upsetting about hearing Cobb talk about getting off. “For a start, you’re giving me far more credit than I deserve if you think I could ever take advantage of Arthur. Second, can we please not have this conversation?”

“I’m just saying, Eames. And for the record, it’d be pretty easy to take advantage of Arthur if that’s what he wants. So watch yourself. Arthur’s not the only one who knows how to dig a quiet grave.”

The statement is scarier by merit of how utterly ridiculous it sounds coming from Dom, but that’s not the part that grabs his attention. “Wait, are you telling me—“

“Good night, Eames.”

Eames listens to the harsh beep of the disconnect for a few seconds, before flipping his phone shut with a heavy sigh. There’s still a week left on the job, by the time they finish the tricky militarisation of the senior partner who came back with a red-flagged psych report in the initial research. Arthur’s already starting to look needy again, which isn’t surprising. The average semen-reliant metabolism needs come every few days to stay healthy, a fact that had caused a whole lot of grief for Eames’s sister. It was hard enough finding any information about the malady, let alone a suitable donor.

He rakes a hand through his hair. If Arthur _wants_ him to take advantage… it doesn’t bear thinking about. No matter what Arthur’s said to Cobb, there’s no mistaking the cold shoulder he’s giving.

Eames chews on his lower lip. Then he changes his shirt and splashes water on his face. Surely there’s some lithe little thing in the hotel bar with dark eyes and darker hair that he can woo into bed; hold down and fuck hard and pretend he isn’t using as a substitute for something better.

Strangers are good enough for Arthur. Eames supposes they’ll have to be good enough for him, too.

Eames only takes four steps into the bar before he decides on his mark. The lean curve of the man’s back alone is enough to make up his mind, already running to how that smooth muscle will feel under his hands as he pushes it down into the mattress. It doesn’t hurt that the dark hair is soft and slightly curled and far too similar to how Arthur’s… but he isn’t going to think about that now.

He takes another four steps before the man turns slightly on his stool to grab the attention of the bartender.

It’s Arthur.

Cold freezes the tentative arousal that was creeping up Eames’s spine and he tries to change direction, but it’s too late.

“Eames? What are you doing here?”

“Much the same thing you are, I imagine,” Eames says. It’s too late to turn away without the retreat being obvious, so he slides onto the seat next to Arthur. “What are you drinking?”

“I’m not,” he says, right as the bartender passes him a glass of water. Even in profile the furrow in his brow is obvious while he sips. “Look, I need to—“

Eames waves a dismissive hand. “I figured as much. I’ll stick to the back, won’t get in your way. Promise.”

Arthur’s collar is loose, tie worked open far enough for the curve of his neck to be visible. Eames watches the way his throat works as he swallows. “Sure.”

They sit in awkward silence while Eames waits for his own drink. It’s nothing like the drinking silences they used to share before Santiago. There’s something tense filling it now, an uneasiness that was never there before.

Eames takes his drink and finds a comfortable corner. It’s not a location for attracting a temporary bedwarmer. It’s a location for scoping the room and nursing his bruised pride.

Eventually Eames lets his eyes sweep back to the way Arthur’s leaning into the man who took his place at the bar. Every time he sees those broad shoulders shift in a laugh or that hand brush the small of Arthur’s back, Eames has to bite down the urge to get up and punch the guy in the face for being able to have what he wants.

As frustrating as it is, there’s something gorgeous about the way Arthur goes about his seduction. Even on a purely professional level Eames has to appreciate the deliberate way Arthur cants his body towards the other man, tilting his head at just the right angle to give the mark the most provocative glimpse of bare throat. It’s predatory in a way that Eames only notices because he knows to look for it and utterly devastating in its efficiency.

Eames downs the last of his drink and heads back to his room. He’s not in the mood for a crude fuck with a stranger anymore, not after watching Arthur ploy his skills to take what he needs from the unsuspecting men in the bar. Instead he strips down to his boxer shorts and pours another drink from the scotch he picked up on his way through duty free.

He’s just getting comfortable on the hotel bed and contemplating porn and a wank when an urgent knock at the door cuts through the silence. “Who is it?” Without even thinking about it he reaches across to the bedside table where his gun lies.

“It’s me.” Arthur’s voice is unmistakable, even more delicious now coloured by the erotic shift in tone all his kind can put on when they’re starving. Survival mechanism, Eames supposes, but it’s doing terrible things to his ability to think straight.

He leaves the gun on the bedside table and gets up to open the door without bothering to throw on a robe. According to all logic Arthur should be busy with someone else’s cock in his mouth right now, but if he wants to come rub it in Eames’s face some more first he can deal with a facefull of almost nakedness.

“I need you,” Arthur says once he steps inside the room, standing far closer than he needs to.

Arthur’s skin is too hot, hotter than any human’s skin should ever be, and Eames’s eyes slip shut as the familiar smell of overripe fruit washes over him. “What happened?”

“His wife happened.”

The words are whispered against the curve of Eames’s collar bone, and his eyes snap open. Arthur is looking up at him through dark lashes, turning on seductive charm he really doesn’t need to use. Eames would have fucked him anytime in the last three years, even before the attack and all the new sex appeal that came with his change.

There’s almost more white than brown in Arthur’s eyes now, fever bright and wanting, and it’s so fucking hard to take a step back. But Eames does it, and swallows. “Okay.” He swallows again. It’d be easy to get Arthur on his knees for him now. He could ask, and Arthur wouldn’t protest, not when he’s feeling desperate enough to ask in the first place. Arthur would suck his cock, practiced and slow, licking at every little drop of precome like he’s dying of thirst and it’s the only thing that can relieve him.

It’s pretty much true, and Eames takes another step back before he’s tempted to do something unforgivable like tell Arthur to blow him if he wants it so badly. “Just give me a minute, I’ll get a cup and—“

Arthur’s shaking his head, closing the space between them again. Fuck, he’s running so hot that the smooth touch of his fingers at the waistband of Eames’s shorts is like a brand, almost too much to bear.

“I don’t want a fucking cup,” Arthur says.

His voice is even thicker now and Eames is drowning in it, no matter how hard he tries to remind himself that he needs to do the right thing, not take advantage, not be a fucking prick about something that Arthur has no control over, not let that sticky-sweet voice—

Arthur drops to his knees, dragging Eames’s shorts down as he goes. Eames sucks in a breath and braces a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, feeling the heat sinking into his palm. “Arthur, don’t, I can—“

“You can shut up and let me do what I need to do.” He braces his hands on Eames’s thighs, nosing at his balls without preamble. “ _Fuck_ , you smell good.”

Eames sucks in a breath and drops his other hand onto Arthur’s hair, meaning to push him away. Then Arthur opens his mouth and breathes, warm, moist air across Eames’s cock, and he tightens his fingers in the dark strands instead.

“I could smell you from the bar,” Arthur murmurs, like he doesn’t really want to admit it, right before he gives the underside a soft lick.

Nothing but soft, wet pressure, and Eames sinks his teeth into his lower lip as his hips jerk at the contact. He feels over sensitised where Arthur’s saliva is cooling on his skin, and he wonders how good that potent mix of hormones and heat will feel wrapped around his cock.

Except that isn’t going to happen. Eames gives Arthur’s hair a gentle tug before he can open his mouth again. “If you need it, maybe we should—“

“Move to the bed?” Arthur rises. “You’re not going to be able to stand up, so that’s probably a good idea.”

Eames was going to say “talk about this”. But he’s only human and that statement in _that_ tone of voice, coming from Arthur’s slick lips, is enough to break him. “Yeah,” he says, stepping out of his shorts and backing up until he feels the edge of the bed. “That’s a good idea.”

Arthur loosens his tie as he stalks across to the bed, just watching as Eames spreads himself out comfortably. It’s disconcerting in a way, vulnerable, being completely naked and laid out like a buffet under Arthur’s pale eyes.

It’s still the most arousing situation Eames has ever had the misfortune to find himself in. Arthur’s tongue dips across his lower lip, a healthy pink compared to the pallor of his face, and Eames spreads his legs wider without even thinking about it.

“I’m going to suck you now,” Arthur says, sliding in between Eames’s legs and resting his hands on his hips. His voice is still pure honey, a subtle kind of hypnosis, and Eames feels it sinking into his bones.

He nods, and then Arthur’s swallowing him down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eames says, hips jerking up against the firm pressure of Arthur’s hands as that warm mouth closes around his cock.

Less than five seconds in and the sensation is almost intense enough to make him come then and there. It’s nothing like any head he’s ever gotten in his life, too hot and too wet and too _much_. He groans, grabbing at the bedspread and trying to arch his spine enough to thrust deeper, but Arthur just holds him down harder with strength that’s bordering on inhuman and sucks him lazily.

Arthur doesn’t seem to be in any kind of a rush at all, no matter what sounds he’s tearing from Eames’s throat. Eames is sure his bones are going to melt any second from the slow heat spreading through his insides, but now Arthur’s guaranteed what he needs it’s as if all his desperation has faded away.

Eames opens his eyes when Arthur pulls away. It’s a fight not to close them again when Arthur shifts and starts lapping at the slit, saliva tingling on the sensitive head, but it’s worth it.

“Arthur, fuck,” Eames chokes out as he watches the way Arthur’s eyelids flutter closed, the way his mouth moves around soft little groans of pleasure as he licks up the moisture beading on the tip.

Arthur’s fingers knead at the jut of Eames’s hipbones and he pants between swipes of his tongue. The heat of his breath makes Eames’s cock jump, and fuck, he wants to come so badly, could come, he just needs a little bit more.

“You taste as good as you smell,” Arthur says, breathy, looking up at Eames.

He wants to tell Arthur to get his mouth back on his cock, but the sight of him between his legs, eyes almost nothing but white with wide black pupils… it’s enough to make him stop to drag in a breath. It’s impossible to care that he shouldn’t be doing this when he’s one good suck off coming and Arthur is staring up at him licking his lips like Eames is the most delicious thing he’s ever had in his mouth.

 _They have no gag reflex_ is Eames’s last coherent thought before Arthur closes his eyes and swallows him like it’s effortless. Within half a second his entire consciousness compresses down to nothing but Arthur’s throat tensing around his cock, the slick pressure of Arthur’s tongue.

“Arthur,” he gasps, digging his heels into the mattress. “Arthur, I’m—“

Not that it matters that he doesn’t finish the sentence. It’s habit, a courtesy to warn when he’s about to come. Then he remembers that’s what Arthur wants. Arthur _needs_ him to come in his mouth.

Eames tries one last time to thrust up, even though Arthur’s nose is already pressed against his skin, and comes with a shuddering cry. And he’s had great sex before, _amazing_ sex, but nothing has ever felt so gut-wrenchingly good as Arthur sucking him dry.

Distantly he’s aware that Arthur started shuddering too, as the first spurt spilt onto his tongue. His fingers are still clenching and unclenching on Eames’s hips, digging in deep enough to bruise as he swallows until Eames has nothing left to give. By the time he’s finished, Eames has managed to open his eyes again, blinking away the heavy post-coital haze.

There’s already a healthier flush to Arthur’s cheeks, the skin still warm where he rubs it against Eames’s inner thigh before he leans in again. Eames tries to shift away, too oversensitive and wrung out for the touch of Arthur’s tongue. “Stop it.”

Arthur makes a contented noise low in his throat and sits back on his haunches. The hotel lighting does nothing to flatter him, not that he needs it, but it’s more than sufficient for Eames to see the drop of come that’s settled on the curve of his upper lip.

Slowly, deliberately; with brown bleeding back into his eyes as Eames watches; Arthur slips out his tongue and licks the stray droplet away with an audible sigh of pleasure.

Eames has never wanted to fuck someone so badly in his entire life.

“Better?” he says finally, torn between pulling away and arching up into the touch when Arthur draws the coarse pads of his fingers across from the base of his cock to the tip.

“Not quite,” Arthur says, crawling up Eames’s body. He’s hot, literally, and Eames feels every point of contact through the thin layers of Arthur’s clothes.

This was never part of the plan. Actually letting Arthur suck him off while he’s too starved to think straight was never part of the plan either, but this is different. It’s too intimate, sweaty foreheads pressed together and sharing air while Arthur fumbles one-handed with his fly between them.

“Eames,” he whispers, the sweetness of his breath tempered with faint, bitter undertones that aren’t usually there.

Eames knows that if he shifts an inch forward and kisses him, he’ll taste his own come in that mouth. The thought sends a possessive thrill down his spine and he lifts his hands to Arthur’s shoulders, smoothing down over the damp cotton clinging to his back until they rest just above his waistband. “Whatever you need, Arthur.”

Arthur groans and grinds down against Eames’s stomach, rubbing his cock against the solid muscle there. “God, I’m sorry.”

The words are like cold water against the intoxicating heat of Arthur’s body, and Eames tightens his hands on Arthur’s hips. “Don’t,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say and they shouldn’t be having this conversation now, not while Arthur is rutting against him, breath hot and wet against Eames’s throat.

If Arthur had even been planning to reply, the words are lost on the sharp gasp that comes out instead.

Eames presses his face against Arthur’s hair and breathes in the soft honey-trap scent of him, digging his fingers into the strip of skin across his spine where his shirt has ridden up as if he can memorise the feel of it under his hands.

“ _Eames,_ ” Arthur says again, and it’s so low and desperate it almost hurts.

“I’ve got you,” Eames pulls Arthur’s hips down harder against him. “Just come.”

It’s as if the words are the last thing Arthur needs. He stills, every muscle pulled too tight, before he’s coming, slicking the tight space between their bodies.

Eames breathes out, shifting a little under Arthur’s weight. The heat’s dissipating, Arthur’s skin growing cool under Eames’s fingers.

Arthur saves him from having to decide what to say by rolling away gracefully and going to the bathroom without a word, leaving Eames with sticky skin and a dirty, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

There’s the sound of water running drifting through the room by the time Eames scrapes together enough presence of mind to reach for the tissue box on the bedside table. He wipes off his stomach slowly before getting up, muscles still loose and easy, and grabbing his boxer shorts. He knows he’s only got a couple of minutes at most to come up with something to say to Arthur… the _right_ thing to say to Arthur.

He’s only just pulling the shorts back up over his hips when the bathroom door swings open, releasing a cloud of steam. Eames looks at Arthur, both of them frozen for a second that seems to stretch on far too long. Arthur’s hair is pushed back again; clothes all buttoned up and tucked in. Eames sees the moment his eyes close up the same way, dark and guarded in stark contrast to the eager white they were a few scant minutes ago.

Arthur breaks eye contact first, glancing around for his tie and turning all his attention on retying the knot. It’s odd, because Eames knows Arthur well enough to know that he only uses shell knots when he’s feeling particularly tense.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed while Arthur fusses and the silence gets longer. It must be awkward for him, Eames thinks, because for once he’s not in his own hotel room with the power to just kick people out once he’s done with them.

The thought makes Eames grit his teeth. He doesn’t even want to think about how many men Arthur’s been with that way. It doesn’t matter that Arthur needs it, that it’s out of his control. All that matters is that grubby strangers are touching him, using him even while he’s using them.

“You’ll come to me.” The words are out of his mouth before he thinks about them, thinks about what they mean.

Arthur stills, body still angled away. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll come to me,” Eames repeats slowly, tripped up by the natural timbre of Arthur’s voice. It’s still lovely, and he’d still love to hear it moan his name, but there’s nothing coercive lurking just under the surface of it.

He likes it better.

“I don’t have to do shit,” Arthur snaps, giving his tie one final tug and turning to face Eames. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not a slave to this,” he gestures vaguely at himself. “It’s not some fucking leash you can jerk me around with.”

Eames stares at him. “You’re a bloody idiot if you think I want to sleep with you because it’s _easy_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean,” Eames says, lying back down and throwing an arm over his eyes. He just came. Coherent social brain function is still too hard. “You can leave, or you can come back to bed. Do what you like.”

“I always do.” Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but Arthur’s voice sounds a little closer. “Will the option to come back to bed still stand tomorrow?”

Eames shifts his arm. Arthur’s looking down at him, eyebrow raised, every trace of fatigue erased from his face, and it fills him with a fierce kind of pride that _he_ did that. “You won’t need to feed again that soon, will you?”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as Arthur’s brow creases. “I didn’t realise that would be the condition.”

“No, no, it wouldn’t,” Eames says, sitting up. “I just... look. I’m more than fucking happy to have you here whether you need it or not. Or I can come to you. I don’t really care.”

Arthur’s looking at him like he’s trying to find any trace of a lie. “I suppose we’ll see.” He straightens his tie and heads to the door. The shift of his hips as he walks is fascinating, and Eames doesn’t even care that he’s staring.

“Eames?,” Arthur says, pausing with his fingers resting on the door knob.

He’d ask him not to go if he thought it would do any good. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make any plans.”

Eames lies back down when the door clicks shut, staring at the ceiling.

Then he smiles.

It’s not much. But it’s a start.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Satiation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/187445) by [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok)




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